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The increasingly inaccurately-named blog of journalist and futurist Chris Taylor. Either the most sporadically brilliant amateur blog, the most brilliantly amateur sporadic blog, or the most amateur sporadic brilliance on the Web since 2001.
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Daily Blah FAQ
Who are you?
I'm the newly-appointed Future editor at Business 2.0 and the former San Francisco correspondent for Time Magazine.
Wow, so does this mean everything you write reflects Time Inc's opinion? Or do you perhaps have some sort of standard disclaimer to the effect that it doesn't?
Naturally, the opinions contained in this blog are not those of my employers. In fact, some opinions may be the polar opposite of my employers. Some may be the same, for all I know. Hey, it's not like I ask my employers their opinions about everything in the news, okay? Let's just say that if this were a Venn diagram with one circle marked "my opinions" and the other one marked "my employers' opinions", there would doubtless be some overlap. But neither I nor my employers are able to pinpoint exactly where that overlap is.
What is this Daily Blah thing?
An experiment for a column I wrote about blogging back in December 2001. All these years later, I haven't been able to kick the habit.
Do you write any other blogs, by chance? Could that have something to do with the fact that Daily Blah isn't always Daily?
Yes -- the Future Boy blog for Business 2.0. And yes. If you want true, editorially-mandated daily coverage from me, that's probably the best place to look.
Mister, you talk funny. Are you one of them furrners?
Why yes I am, as it happens. I was born, raised and educated in Great Britain. I've been living in the U.S. since 1996 and identify as British.
I say, old chap, you forgot the "u" in "colour."
No I didn't. I may identify as British, but I am also an American journalist writing for an American audience about mostly American issues. These two different sides of me are a constant source of tension. Nevertheless, Daily Blah will adhere to American English grammar and spelling.
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Daily Blah for... Sunday, August 13, 2006
The Shush Lady
To Harbin Hot Springs, a curious historical resort three hours north of San Francisco. It's a valley with hot and cold running water supplied by nature; the Victorian-era San Franciscans, who, like most Victorians, loved to take the waters, flocked there in droves and stuffed the place with hotels. A fire in the early 70's burned most of their tourist constructions but left the pools intact. Now it's a much smaller resort, with a few rooms and a lot of camping. In summer, many visitors sleep out on mattresses on the decks overlooking the valley, hoping that the chatter of the crickets will drown out the snoring of their neighbors.
Harbin these days is a strange mixture of hippy and fascist. Everyone's very cool and relaxed and, you know, kind of naked. But extremely strict rules are enforced. No booze is allowed anywhere on the grounds. Leave your child unattended for thirty seconds while you run to the kitchen to get him some milk, as one unfortunate father I met there had done a year ago, and you'll be hearing the harsh rasp of security radios talking to each other within seconds; days later, you'll get a letter banning you for six months.
Certain of the pools are designated "quiet," which I can understand perfectly -- it's pretty easy to shut up, and produces a blissful, meditative effect while you're soaking. But the main hot spring pool is designated "whisper," which seems to be a problem. Once you start getting into a conversation, it's hard to keep your mind on modulating your voice -- especially at night, after your party has been lounging on the lawn on blankets watching the meteor shower and sipping from coffee cups filled with Irish Milk and Mexican Water and Spicy Pirate Punch, and other euphemistically-named beverages.
That's when you'll run afoul of the Shush Lady, who patrols the pool at night with a flashlight and a radio. Raise your voice above what the Shush Lady decides is appropriate, and she'll shine her torch in your eyes, then wave it in two irritated strokes at the No Loud Noises sign. Now I know some Blah readers, especially some who've spent a lifetime in classrooms (hello, mum) who'll be thinking: good for her. If you can't police your own whispering, you deserve a bit of kleig light action. Problem is, the Shush Lady wasn't really policing whispering. You can whisper quite noisily, and that is in fact what my party was doing. Go ahead, try it. Take a draught of Spicy Pirate Punch and whisper at the top of your lungs. I'll wait.
On the whole, though, I was glad of the Shush Lady and the bizarre fascist-hippydom she embodied (not to mention the ghosts of the Victorian-era Harbin I like to think she was channeling). Why? Because nothing fosters community faster than having Authorities to outmaneuver. Supping on the lawn under the stars became a kind of reassertion of personal freedom, the Being Naughty that we all need from time to time. Throw in a meteor shower and a blanket full of giggling friends, and it's well worth the price of entry.
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